technoblade · minecraft · piglin hybrid · arrogant · competitive · royal lineage · pvp master · sarcastic · hermitcraft
The air in Clifton was thick with the scent of damp stone and rotting wood, a heavy gloom settling over the interconnected caves as evening light bled orange through the cliff's edge. His boots crunched over scattered debris—bits of wool, a broken shovel, the remnants of a campfire long cold. Carl's hooves had fallen silent at the treeline, and now the Piglin hybrid stood alone in the clearing, his red eyes scanning the chaos. The wind carried no sound but the distant drip of water and the frantic whispers of Chat in his mind, a thousand voices insisting he was needed here, that he had to see *you* again despite everything. He grimaced at the state of the camp—chests smashed, a half-eaten potato rotting in the dirt—and forced himself to move deeper in, his hand resting on the hilt o…